


Farewell

by IrreWilderer



Series: “L’habit ne fait pas le moine” [7]
Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: Communication, Communication during sex, Cowgirl Position, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Love Confessions, Mutual Masturbation, smut is in the second chapter, tilted uterus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22047778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrreWilderer/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: Finally on Monarch, Captain Archie and Vicar Max trade goodbyes that are, this time, a little more physical.
Relationships: The Captain/Maximillian DeSoto
Series: “L’habit ne fait pas le moine” [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540777
Comments: 31
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

Despite days gone by without a dunk in the bath, Parvati’s face was framed by curls that were clean, soft, and skirting the usual chaotic bun, favoring instead a mass of tawny silk falling about her shoulders.

The bed-bound mechanic was still coming back from her concussion. In a cot within the Iconoclasts’ compound, Parvati spoke, her tone cut from cloth both confident and quiet, and fingers clutching a blanket of blue-green knitting.

“I’m sure, captain,” insisted the wrench jockey again. “Everything I need is right here. You get on to what needs doin’.”

“I could rustle up a snack before I hoof it, though. If you want.” Archie’s back was to the curtains hung for privacy. Her field of vision was filled with naught but her not entirely well mechanic, who looked the typical smallness of one stuck in bed. “What are you thinking? Sweet? Salty? Nanners might settle your stomach if you’re still queasy. ”

Parvati’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, dickens, no. Uh, no _thank-you_ , I mean. Innards are turning just to think on it.” The woman weakly swallowed. “Few hours of shut-eye and I’ll be right as rain. And here’s my datapad for readin’, and cards in case that’s a might much. As for company, Ellie’s been about, and the folk here have all been super swell. So don’t worry. I’m all taken care of.”

“Not to mention Felix will be hanging around soon.”

Archie peeked passed the curtains into the room proper. Hardly lit, heaving breathing; laundry and floors all needing a healthsome see-to: the hospital sprung from someone’s home had patients doing as poorly as the building herself. Having taken a particular interest in Graham’s people, Archie penciled in ‘clinic up-keep’ to the chores list, eyes studying guts-slicked tiles and bloodied instruments.

Parvati asked, “why is that?”

“He got a bit of a shock. Of the literal kind.” Turning back, Archie’s hands gripped her hips. “We were doing electrical work for Graham out behind the bar. Big guy’s suffering some confusion; muscle pain. Not necessarily any different than usual, but.”

“He’ll be alright, though?”

Archie nodded. Her sarcasm-doused smirk simmered down in the face of Parvati’s uncertain concern. “Yeah,” promised Archie, straight and earnest. “He’ll be alright.”

Leaving the medic’s domicile, the captain’s solitude was stripped by Vicar Max who sidled up to her straight off with travel packs lugged along. Relinquishing Archie’s rucksack, Max wondered, “how fares Miss Holcomb?”

“It’s that migraine,” explained the woman, hefting her bag up her shoulder. “The pain’s got her plumb exhausted. Likely she could pop some Focusitol, or maybe try an aromatic, but I don’t want to chance what happened turning worse.” Sighing, she added, “feel bad enough as it is,” before her sense could council against it.

The aggregate of Graham’s hangabouts still surprised. Steering around their dilly-dallying and discussions vis-à-vis revolution, Archie counted a whole lot of dissonance. Her first taste of Halcyon’s bureaucratic loyalty—namely, the Edgewater brand—had left her believing blind faith to be this galaxy’s custom, but the Iconoclasts proved that wrong. Halcyon wasn’t simply a conveyor belt churning out the brainwashed. There were, in fact, many whose minds were soiled by independance. Eschewing the moral spotlessness of yielding, they were absolutely mucky with autonomy.

If Archie’s assumptions had been wrong in this—in presuming all to be dutiful peons—then other assertions conceivably fell short of the truth, too. If the Iconoclasts could buck expectations, then perhaps the marauders might manage similarly. And if the Iconoclasts could think for themselves, it was possible the bandits were more than bleating animals.

That was where Archie’s guilt became a point of preoccupation: the maybes; the what-ifs.

“You ‘feel bad’, do you?” Max echoed, plundering through her pondering. “About what, I wonder. Miss Holcomb’s present predicament, or the events surrounding her situation?”

As their shoes shuffled towards the compound’s entrance, Archie answered with conspicuous, curt silence.

The vicar’s jaw squared. Side-stepping a collective of clucking Iconoclasts he treated as an obstacle, his mulling came to a conclusion. “Days after the fact, and, finally, you’re allowing your apprehensions to surface. Tell me, captain: why are you so dead-set on assuming guilt over some delinquent? As you claimed, at the time, you gave him his life. To do with it as he would.”

Eyes rolling, Archie’s hands crammed into her pockets. With **that** tone, and _this_ look, and there-yonder air of superiority, it seemed the vicar had expected this. Max had been waiting for Archie’s contrition at crippling Parvati’s assailant, and, in his anticipation, Max had his arguments at the ready. But Archie was just as prepared for this conversation which never stopped.

“What you call guilt?” Archie posed. “I call decency. Don’t matter that these Halcyon marauders are brutes. They still got one life; just one chance at seeing this universe. It’s a pity when that’s taken away.”

“Yet you lack compunction when setting up a kill-shot for either myself or Mister Millstone. Do you see no difference between facilitating their deaths and actually causing them?”

Eyes a-twinkle, Archie smirked. “Depends on the pills I’ve been popping, to be honest.”

“And when your head is clear?” Max’s expression tilted with familiar fondness and a playful smile. “Seldom though that is, of course.”

They left the Iconoclast compound behind, walking eastward along the broken road. There was nothing new, here, that she might say. Not when it was her intent—her scruples—offending the vicar’s sense of lean, mean, and lofty morality. She couldn’t convince him, but she could, at least, remind him of her whys and wherefores.

“On Earth, I had parents,” Archie explained. “Friends, lovers; a life. But there was no… No ‘Big Bad’ to protect them from; no guns waving wildly about that threatened the peace, you know? And there was certainly no situation that might’ve been bettered by a bullet from my end. Life was cramped, slow, and often sad, but it was easy. I never had to fight for anything.”

“Halcyon is not Earth. As I’ve said before. Cowardice cannot be excused by a privileged up-bringing.”

“And, as you’ve _also_ said before,” Archie needled with good-natured know-it-allness, “I’ve not only been a witness but complicit. Might not be landing any final blows, but I’ve been dealing more than enough lead lately.”

At his side, she bumped him purposely with her hip, dismantling that dead-straight posture while his eyes rounded with hazel coloured startlement. For all the heavy-handed haggling of their mores, this was their language of affection: continuing their old, circular conversation with oft-repeated points and parley so they could pretend an end wasn’t coming.

“Does my regret really matter that much?” Archie asked with teasing whimsy. “Does it matter to the Grand Plan, so long as I’m doing as I ought? Playing the good, little cog in the machine; facilitating survival of the fittest? If I feel badly—if I pity these poor bastards and cry over spilt milk—does that mean a thing to the Greater Good? _Hm?_ Does it, vicar?”

Cutting through her coltish sarcasm, Max caught her wrist. 

“It may not matter to the Universal Equation,” said the man, pulling her to stop her steps. “But it matters to me.”

She huffed around a thickness in her throat. For all the softness of his eyes and his hard hand holding hers, the world around them did not melt away. It became more. The sulphur smell mounted; the morning sun lit up every line and angle of life which drew reality around them in such a clear, pure panoramic. Standing there with Max wasn’t a dream—it was simply a reminder of the way things were, and his esteem changed nothing.

Taking both his hands in hers, Archie squeezed. “Well, it won’t have to matter to you much longer.” After which she pushed their journey onward, taking the lead as they walked.

Stones skipped and skittered as Archie kicked them. Amiable in his own way, Max resuscitated their conversation sans sloppy, saccharine admissions, weaving in the yarn of his curiosity.

“I suppose it may concern the Universal Equation if your guilt kept Mister Millstone from accompanying us. Should his absence be the reason we both become a mantiqueen’s meal, that is.”

“Oh, no,” Archie assured. “Felix was, indeed, fairly thrown through the ringer today. Had a good charge go through him tip-to-toe. Fared better than the last Iconoclast who attempted to deal with the trouble, though. Think he died, I heard, trying to fix that wiring.”

“And how many perished attempting to…” Max’s brow furrowed. “What is it we’re doing, exactly?”

“They just need someone checking the guardhouse comms before they send patrols out here,” Archie explained. “I was told the breaker needs a reset.”

A fresh swell of sour, stinking breeze carried Archie to considering a good vomit. Before she could bend and heave, however, a distant clamoring cleared the air, as it were. Checking her rifle’s sights, Archie scrimped for intel on the click-yonder situation.

“Well?” Max prompted as she brought the rifle down.

“Canids and marauders gone at it. By approach, should be most are dealt with.”

Towards the guardhouse where whence came the commotion, they leap-frogged from camouflage-offering rock to cover-yielding prefab container. Scant on hesitance and near enough to smell spilled innards, Max suddenly said, “watch my back,” insinuating himself into the carnage.

Again, Archie checked her scope. Ruffians’ scabby knees poked through ripped slacks; their shoes fit but for field-work provided easy target. Canids having succumbed to slaughter, there were very few marauders left, and the vicar-captain combo made quite the team as Archie set up and Maximillian knocked down. 

The man had been right. Archie was now wanting of hesitance when a marauder’s kneecap required malefaction, or leg had need of splintering. Since Parvati had taken that bullet to her helmeted head, the captain simply found it easier to pretend that, once her target was immobilized, their fate was out of her hands. It was forced ignorance; a willing blindness to the truth. But it was the only way she could cope without being peaked on pills or soused 24-7. Anything else, and Archie commiserated herself into a migraine. 

With the last outlaw soon face down and dirt-eating, captain and vicar went for the communications hub, though, as Archie was keen to mark, “you’re limping.”

Max shrugged. “It’s nothing. An aptly placed bullet which the armor took the brunt of. Smarts, though.”

Connecting a portable datapad to the breaker on the side of the guardhouse, Max commenced investigations. Archie stood vigilant, searching the colorous skyline for future kerfuffles in the form of approaching wildlife. She could hear, already, distant rapt cries called by the new blood bouquet; the echo of mantisaurs as they followed suit, mobbing their way in herds.

“I’d assumed the Iconoclasts were hazarding a guess when you said that the breaker required a reset,” Max mentioned, skimming the damage report. “But it appears that _should_ mitigate the havoc wreaked by these marauders.”

Appreciating the competence (and comely slack of his lips as he concentrated), Archie smiled to herself until the vicar was gathering his gear, job complete. Neither needed mention, but it was best they pitter-patter pronto, which they did to the clanking of their various equipment.

“Thanks for this,” Archie said, keeping stride with his longer gait.

“A job done well is its own reward.” With his next step, however, Max’s toploftical demeanor tumbled. His feet dug into the ground; he half-strangled a wholly smarting _“argh!”_

Stifled sounds of distress mid-battle were the usual happenstance, but Max strove for stoicism once bullets stopped flying. Archie reached out. A dismissive brush-off indicated composure restored, yet there was vulnerability on the edge of his vicarly demeanor; a hope in his eyes.

“I…” Max grit his teeth. “Might we take a moment?”

Archie nodded. “Those buildings look good for a breather. Do you need…?”

“I can manage.”

Entering one of the derelict domiciles around what had become the Iconoclasts’ guardhouse, the closing door darkened the room. As an electric lantern flickered life back into it, Max sat on the bed, clasping his knees, while Archie set to scrounging, peering through the din for pilferage.

“Enviro filters must have wore some time ago,” the captain commented as she scanned the shelves. “Atmosphere’s gotten to all this stuff. Goddamn sulphur...”

She rambled about what she found; reported on the state of scavenged goods, most of which she rated as ‘serious garbage’. As it turned out, quiet between them was awkward, now, though it had never been the most comfortable of things (something to chase off with head-butting or heavy petting). 

They were awaiting an end. Whatever short-lived nest of often-frustrated and fully-formed affection the vicar and captain had shared, the time for quitting was nigh. However, with the official cut-off cozying farther in the future alongside Fallbrook, things became confused. Striving to part amicably, every lingering stare, long silence, or word of kindness was over-suffused with respect. Handing her vittles from the fridge became a vast affair of hands brushing and very soft stares; attempting to warn him to step around rapt shit was accented by half-starts and apologies.

In a word: _confused._ Max’s leaving was swelling into something unrecognizably grievous. She wanted him off the ship, following his life’s work after this short, Unreliable-centered furlough. Max deserved the peace of purpose.

With her mind leaning towards the man, Archie asked, “need more time?” while turning from a drawer of curios.

“Maybe not,” answered Max. Standing, a sense of ambition surpassed his discomfort. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Watching him wrangle himself into the water closet, Archie took his place on the bed. A book was pulled from her pack. The distraction was an offer of privacy where, thanks to lack-of-power, the latrine door would not lock. 

Concentrating on concentrating rather than endeavouring to read, Archie realized it was too dark to suss-out words at pace with a cussing coming from the room over.

“We alright?” Archie asked.

“Yes, captain. I—”

Absence of answer was as near damning as an uttered _darn_ , or _dangit_ , or a dozening other disrespects. So Archie crept hence.

Despite meager illumination, the woman spied, swell as day, purpled, abraded skin wreathing a circular mark of maroon on the vicar’s upper stomach. It was the aftermath of a superior bullet offending lower-graded armor. Archie had earned such her own self; regarded more than a few on Felix before Ellie got to fixing. But on Max, the imagine swept her up in memories not of guilt, or of injuries gone by, but, through some meandering maze of conflicted emotion, it aimed at the throbbing between her eyes and bred annoyance.

“What—?” Stomping close, hand hovering, Archie was sure she felt heat hanging about the affliction. “Why didn’t you say anything about this when it happened? It looks **_bad_**. Might be a rib or two is bruised.” She forced her frown on him by staring hard into his eyes. “Law’s sake. This is just like after the Back Bays on the Groundbreaker. You keeping your mouth buttoned for lamebrained reasons. Only, now, you most certainly don’t get to blame me for—”

She didn’t strictly require his raised brow to call attention to her tongue-lashing manner of tirading. Stomaching the ire, Archie matched his shook look with one of her own. Then she ground her palms soothingly against her eyes.

“Sorry. Think I’m the one looking to fight.” She flashed a smirk. “For once.”

Max touched at her arm. “You’ve been plagued by headache since we arrived,” he rationalized. “You’ve vomited... twice today, I believe? Never mind how often since landfall.”

“It’s this forsakin’ sulphur. In my mouth; my eyes. There’s a constant k-norking right behind…” Shaking her head of her belly-aching, blinking against the stars about her vision, Archie peered through the dark. She plastered nettlesome across her lips, steering round her fussing towards wondering. “What **is** your problem with straight-talking, though, anyhow? Don’t mean to be plain about it, but you’re getting older. Nothing shameful, there, but you’ve got to learn to trust at some point; to be open.”

Milling over the point, Max paced his way into the main room. His typically arrow-straight posture wavered with his injury, yet he still imbued a stolidity she could never effect, and which was certainly a colour of his stubbornness.

“In fact, I have found trust to be something I must distance myself from. In my old age.” Sitting on the bed with a grunt, he teetered on edifying. “Or perhaps I should say that it is distrust which has been the great lesson of my years so far.”

Archie’s eyes rolled. With arms crossed her chest, she padded over until she was parked at his side, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Why? What calamity’s got you turtling-up every time you ought to be asking for help?”

“Must I reiterate how I came to be assigned vicar of a low-level prison?” Not one to repeat—it offended his due respect—Max’s jaw had squared. “The truth has done me very little good in my life, captain. As has reliance on others. Since my stint behind bars, I’ve been running from honesty, as it were. In Edgewater, and in— _a-hmm._ ”

“And?” His throat-clearing weren’t subtle. “Why so hesitant, Mr. DeSoto?” After a moment of silence, Archie sidled closer, playfully parading through his personal space as her face neared his. “All this disinclination gets me to wondering. Are you really a vicar?”

A favored game of the Unreliable’s gang was gauging what might be a more on-point profession for the expletive-loving, grapple-happy starched-collar who seemed more likely a con than a cleric. This past-time often took place within earshot of Max, meaning he was used to the suspicion.

Normally one to grouse over it, he only smiled.

“If I am not a vicar, than I am nothing. In the scheme of the Grand Plan, of course.” Humour sobered to honesty as they sat there, side by side. “The crew—and you—are the first I’ve hazard to place my trust in in a long time. I can’t say I’ve been entirely disappointed.”

Archie looked away. “Flatterer.”

The gravity—the great weight of his given admission—was that undue overcompensating for his going. There was weakness in confession—something the vicar knew, and navigated around, often expressing disposition through doing instead of saying. But now was once amongst a smattering of times in which Maximillian DeSoto had side-stepped subtlety to come to his point: that the fists-swinging preacher sported a soft spot for the crew. And her. She _meant_ something to him.

Such affection was a warm bubble bath of sentiment, but saying so on account of his disembarking was like landing in a bucket of ice: clarifying, but less nice. It felt forced. And it felt like a formality.

“Seeing as how we’ve been helping the Iconoclasts all day, I’m surprised you’re in such a dandy mood,” Archie observed. “Or is it indeed because you’re ridding yourself of us so soon?”

“You're not gone yet,” Max needled with falsified, looking-forward-to-it regret. “As for these Iconoclasts?” He sighed the sigh of the exhausted. “Cult-mongers and illusionists. They won’t amount to anything in the end. If their cooperation gains Doctor Welles’ information, however, even I must concede to their terms. A few odd jobs seems a small price to pay for, what I hope, will be the Greater Good.”

“Assuming that’s all,” Archie said. “And you know it’s not.”

Max tried to read her face. “Care to share your concerns, captain?”

A few ‘odd jobs’ understated what was needed by Graham’s people. Agricultural equipment and expertise; field-training for either trapping or fisticuffs; medicine: all stepping stones to self-reliance for the Iconoclasts. There was so much to be done, and more she wished she were doing; however, fessing-up to Max conflicted with their stranglehold on forced good-feelings, and she wasn’t about to blurt out ‘yeah, as soon as you’re gone, I’ll be fetching Adelaide’s fertilizing techniques for these folk’. It would only leave him frustrated; steamed that she was prioritizing a collective of layabout heretics.

So she gave him a blank look.

“Concerns? No, it’s…” Archie watched him earnestly. “Look. After sorting out their printing press, and these chores around the compound, there’s more coming. Make no mistake, I want to be helping these folk, but as you say: this is to get Phineas his intel.” She huffed. “Seems it’s been some time since that’s what this was about. Now it’s come down to two peoples tussling for scraps ”

Max’s head tilted. “It appears as though you’ve taken a side.”

“Nope.” With her boots a-dangle off the bed, Archie yet found the metaphorical might to put her foot down. “There are no sides to be taken. Not in this.”

“You have to see that the area is destined for confrontation.”

“Which is real dandy. Don’t mean I have to hold their hands. They can figure things out themselves.”

The vicar smiled wryly. “Like in Edgewater?”

Already stomping at the notion she need intercede between Stellar Bay and the Iconoclasts, Archie found laughter to be the one thing left for her. Smiling, sighing, she ascertained that “for a fella who talks about the place like an acorn calf, you sure harp on it a lot.”

“If I do not force you to contemplate your actions, who will? Not Doctor Fenhill, lest a pay-cheque is involved. And certainly not Miss Holcomb. She’s too afraid of offending to offer her two bits.”

Archie prompted, knowing full-well what “and Felix?” would lead to.

“Mr. Millstone doesn’t have two bits to give,” Max answered, ramping up with certainty. ”Either from his pocket, or his head.”

Paltry performance evaluations aside, there was all measure of affection in his comprehensive summations. It wasn’t just disregard: it was understanding of his crew-mates—nice or not—which warmed Archie’s heart. She thought, not for the first time, on how snug they all fit; on how their various savvies came together to sow something healthsome; something reaching for the sunshine, and growing beautiful.

With the vicar gone, that sprout wouldn’t be the same.

Nostalgia for what she still had caused her to nestle closer; to turn her body towards him; to cup and caress his jaw, her nails scratching ever slightly at his moisturized, manicured skin.

“So what am I going to do without you?” Archie stared into a hazel gaze gone ink-black in the lack of light.

Leaning into her hand, Max luxuriated with each touch, his eyelids drowsy. “Why, succumb to depravity, I imagine.”

Figuring it to be the opposite, Archie snorted. “Uh-huh.”

Max pulled her in. The bulk of her armor kept him from becoming an appreciable body in her arms. Instead, Archie felt only his lips rasping relief across her own. Her head tilted; his head did, too. Wishing to melt under the hint of his hands at her hips, she settled for hot breath washing her chin as he exhaled, their hungry connection coming between gasps and groans and useless grinding.

His kiss did not build to a crescendo; it was all loud, and needing, laving her in capturing demands as he suckled at her bottom lip, begging return. His was a passion that always preceded her own; it woke quiet things in her, and as his tongue darted across hers she roused with a moan. Pressing closer, Archie licked through the seal of his mouth, but there came a jerk from beneath; a twinge.

Pulling back, Max’s face was stricken.

“Laws, dammit! I… _Sorry_.” Archie moved back farther, giving him quite the breadth. “Did I hurt it? You? Your… Did I hurt your bruise?”

The vicar wasn’t one to fib for charity. “A little.”

Standing, Archie ruminated on whether it wasn’t time to mosey and present Max to a doctor. “Is there something I can do?”

Max nodded off into the room. “In my pack. There’s a jar of Metallisys Gel. That’ll keep the worst at bay.”

Fishing the small pot from his haversack, Archie returned to find Max sluffing his undershirt, grimacing with every contortion.

The man lay on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Archie sat beside his waist, legs off the side, and with a dislodging of the lid she went to collecting the cool cream in her fingers. As bruised, battered ribs were relieved by a very clinical smelling substance, Archie was reminded of his similar ministrations to her rash a few days prior. She swallowed a smile before allowing it to flourish.

_Guess we’re even._

“Is that better at all?” Archie asked.

“It… yes. But use less. _Please._ That is thirteen bits a bottle and hard to come by.”

Mouth ajar, the woman rubbed directly at the bullet’s aftermath with what might well’ve been gold.

“Thirteen! It’s half that for Spacer’s Choice Skin-Tuf Salve.”

“Which, while entirely inadequate, _also_ leaves a burning sensation one need employ another ointment for.”

Archie laughed quietly. “That’s just good business sense. Why confine such a simple affair to only one fine product?”

“Because ‘fine’ does not describe a single item in the Spacer’s Choice catalogue,” Max replied haughtily.

That mighty-highness crumbled hard as the woman rubbed along his breast. Unspoiled by soreness, his breathing was harried just the same, spurred on by her lingering eyes and playing fingers.

Combing through slight chest hair, Archie hummed bewitchedly, staring unabashed at the bones, brawn, and muscle of his shoulders and throat, all which enticed in the dark. Distracted, but always down to bedevil the man, she bit her lip, saying, “might not be the best, but it does in a pinch, Mister Moneybags.”

Max chuckled. “ _Captain_. Are you defending the company whose pistol once backfired in your own face?”

“I’m only suggesting it’s a thrifty alternative. Besides, you know me: champagne tastes.”

“On a beer budget,” Max completed the adage.

Archie leered at her cheapest acquisition. “You bet.”

Comfortable, common; cliche: shades that complemented neither of them, but in these last days together they allowed it.

Pulling himself from the bed’s headboard, Max held her head, kissing her brow before settling back. It was warm, familiar, and so fucking affectionate. “Cheap bastard,” he called her.

Archie snorted. Spinning the jar’s lid to rights, she said, “alrighty, then. Not much of a sawbones, but I think my trembling, feminine hands did the job.”

Depositing the salve in Max’s pack and returning, she sat again off the side of the bed, inspecting a smidge past her work at the torso shining in the slight light thanks to Auntie Cleo’s gel. Vicar Max was beautiful in ways that didn’t matter; by superficial means; by the fine sculpt of his form, his evocative lips; by stomach muscles which had relaxed in years behind a pulpit. Time had softened his body where his temper only steeled. It wasn’t important—skin-deep and surface handsomeness was nothing to kindness—but with Max… What other bulk could bear that temper; what posture could support that heat? His thighs, thick with strength, throwing him into a fight or snapping as he fucked her; those hands—those hard, age-lined hands—collecting enough of her to make her shatter...

As she stared, Max, in turn, scrutinized, coming into her field of vision by stroking her cheek. “What are we contemplating?”

_The people that have swept through my life. With none have I been so at odds as you. And none have been so gorgeous._

“Nothing,” Archie said.

He held her face. He ransomed her gaze.

“Fine,” Archie confirmed, shrugging. “The truth? I’m in it. As much as I could be. With a man like you.”

Luckily, the vicar was quicker to offence than lavish feeling. He said, coolly, “I’m going to need some clarification there, Captain,” instead of looking surprised, or hopeful, neither which would have suited them.

“You’re stubborn; brash. And none too bad on the eyes, either.” Archie smiled. “But you weren’t ever sticking around. I love you as much as I could—for a man I knew that’d be leaving—but I’m not going to carry a torch when you’re gone. Maybe a little something on the heart; memories of scrapping.” She swallowed a resigned sigh. “And this.”

It wasn’t Max’s brand of need that she left on his lips. It was something not so starved; a sentiment less desperate. It wasn’t driven, and possessed; it was only a desire. As Archie pressed her lips softly into his, sensing his body stiffen, she was asking for something she could live without, but something she would miss. It was drinking only water after weeks of sweet wine; it was a bed of straw after a downy mattress. Kissing Max—tasting him as her tongue dipped between his lips—was a luxury soon gone, and she were intent to enjoy it, and be thankful, in the short time she had. 

Cupping his cheek, she pecked at the corner of his mouth, coaxing quiet sighs. Max leaned farther back into the bed’s headboard and she followed, kissing deeper, gripping harder. His arms looped around her, leaving them both huffing at the bulk of her armor. A moment later, she was tearing away, getting to her feet while hearing Max remark, “we’ve hardly rut in worse.”

“That’s true,” Archie conceded as she went about shedding the hard outer shell of her armor. Shimmying out of greaves and plating, pants and jacket were next. “But water damage? Decay? That **_is_ **sort of our ambiance.”

Down to her underwear, she hurried back to the bed. Max had made room, mustering himself against the wall, and they wrapped up in one another like hands rubbing together for heat. Archie shivered against the stale air; Max brought her close, groaning again but not in pain.

Archie—craning her neck back to look up along the body she was crushed against—appreciated the hunger of Max’s eyes. “Want to flip for who's on top?” she asked.


	2. Chapter 2

When Max’s response—scarce of subject and sparse with predicate—could ultimately be described as ‘silence’, Archie propped herself on her elbow, appreciating the shadows and shade painting him like a portrait of reclined, resigned elegance. Naked to the waist, his authority was still near total in the proud tilt of his head. Saying more with less—commanding an empty room to a roar—the man had Archie's head swimming.

Where once it had been only her body to react so bone-deep needingly as he numbed her nethers with lust, now her mind couldn’t help but dote on the bastard behind it. Stubborn; self-interested—yet his definition of personal prosperity had come to encompass her people; her crew. Archie was looking at the motives that made the man, and she swallowed; she swallowed _painfully_. There were daming emotions a-plenty in her throat. 

Flat on his back, as well as flat-out trap-clapped, the vicar still said nothing. He stared up at her, brow smoothed, creating a cordial atmosphere. His hand came close; his thumb and forefinger held her chin.

“You want me riding saddle, don’t you?” Archie asked, smirking.

“I _have_ been terribly injured, captain,” Max reminded.

Watching where her hand harangued his belt, spying it soon moving onto the buttons of his slacks, the woman’s grip slid beneath his waistband, cupping his sleepy member. Max’s down-there hair scratched, a curling heat caught in it. His dick fattened in her palm as she rubbed, causing her own belly to brim with want.

Max succumbing like this was sublime. As he engorged in her fingers, his gorgeous expression melted. Yet, still, his eyes retained some semblance of silver, steeled self as she stroked him. He would not submit utterly, nor would he ever, and Archie needed that; she _wanted_ that. If this was their last fuck, she wanted the vicar who fought her at every turn; who felt the need to inform her of her morals falling short. Frustrating, fraught, fire-in-his-blood Maximillian DeSoto was who she wanted bedding her, not some broken stud reigned in by the bridle of affection. That wasn’t whom she loved.

“This ain’t likely what any reputable sawbones would call ‘bed rest’, vicar,” teased Archie, to which Max chuckled.

Standing, she discarded his pants with deference to his bruise. In response, Max brought a little life to his cock with tugging while eyeing her towering over him. It had Archie realizing the logistics of what they were about to embark upon. How little time they were allotted, where they were; the meagre space offered by the single bed. Foreplay would need be a frugal, simple affair, although, considering how they were currently coping, that seemed dandy-fine.

As Max settled into a rough rhythm, Archie, sensitive to the cool air as she stood there buck-naked, crammed her hand between her legs. The vicar’s visual offered fantastic inspiration as she played at her pearl. His reddened, fat prick stuck in his solid grip had her almost sweating; the tip glistened slightly, and she licked the corner of her mouth, trying to moisten where she’d gone dry with breathlessness. The void-damned ecclesiastic was stupidly handsome.

“Touch your breasts for me,” Max said, resting an arm behind his head.

“Touch _your_ breasts for **me** ,” Archie shot back, stance widening, allowing for better access to her bits.

The man complied. Max’s unoccupied hand smoothed over his chest, brushing past his nipple before returning. Flicking at the nub, he craned his neck a little; leaned into his fist as he pumped harder and his thumb rubbed faster, skin flushed with arousal.

 _“Law,”_ approved Archie.

At length, Max met her gaze. The sight of him was all need, and want, and left Archie needingly wanting to have as his ministrations slowed to barely moving, teasing her with the image of his fingers tweaking his nipple; his thumb rubbing the dripping slit of his dick.

“You, uh…” Moisture dotting her brow, Archie was definitely soaked elsewhere. “You like that?”

“I do,” Max replied.

Archie frowned. _Guess that’s a missed opportunity, then._

“Come,” Max said.

Climbing the mattress, Archie hovered above Max, her knees planted alongside his thighs and her cunt poised excruciatingly close. The tip of his member prodded at her folds, promising, from below, spreading, pounding, and screaming soon to come as he gave a reactive rolls of his hips, his expression one of hankering for her hot, squeezing embrace.

Max breathed hard, and Archie hardly at all. The woman readied to seat herself on his left-leaning shaft by relaxing. Eyes shut, limbs a-shiver, Archie hummed while reckoning on how not well sturdy her stance was, now. Unsteadily supported by her knees, she became aware of the low overhang of the bed, making a mental note to not bounce so hard on his cock that her head ding off the ceiling. She suddenly remembered, for no reason, her ailing crew back at the Iconoclasts’ compound, and wondered if anyone would look for them when—

“Archimedes?”

Moaning, her body flushed to hear her name. Looking to whom had called for her, the succor of her silken heat so close to Max’s cock meant, unsurprisingly, her reticence was like torture. No wonder he asked after her; _of course_ he questioned her pace, his lips pulled into an expression of expecting all the while.

“I…” Archie frowned. ” _Hm._ ”

Although not defeated or down on herself, Archie inched up, sitting lightly on Max’s soft stomach, her heart in a vice without distinct, wordly definition. What she _could_ describe was this: the strong disinclination to drop on his prick thanks to a painful, prescient past.

“What is it?” Max asked.

“It’s… this position, I suppose,” Archie explained while offending the throbbing between her legs with her own vacillation. “It—or, rather, _you’re_ too big, I guess. Although… maybe not.”

Dumbfounded, Max’s nails scratched softly at her skin as his hands bug-snugged at Archie’s waist. Without concern coloured by condescension, the man of science was, simply, matter-of-fact in his mentionings. “It’s something we’ve dealt with before. This situation.”

“It’s something I’ve been dealing with a lot longer,” Archie replied. “Any man I’ve been with has eventually been too much. Especially when I’ve gone on top. Elsewise, I can usually just grit teeth and bear it. I mean, I still get off.” She saw the typical question starting across the vicar’s expression. “Seen a doctor,” she quickly cut-in. “But they only gave me meds for the pain. Apparently there’s nothing worth fixing.”

Max considered. “I did not realize the problem was an old one. But we’ll figure this out; find some way to make it work.” His hands held her tighter. “Where there’s a will, Archimedes.”

Archie nodded. “I know. It’s just that it’s a hindrance, you know? I want to hop on and ride into the sunset, but.”

“Naturally.” Max rolled his teasing eyes. “Who wouldn’t?” 

Partly a charitable distraction from her personal rain-cloud, the man was positively smug in referring to his body. Archie, blushing at her self-directed sorries, appreciated the sight of him at his sarcastic suggestion, then started studying despite herself. Lithe limbs, thick thighs, immaculate skin, and age-lines, wrinkles, and birthmarks: the whole of him well-kept but leaning into his age.

Archie could see where he’d been a skinny, muscled stripling; the embodiment of a Board-certified health advertisement as a young man. Yet here was the story of his life. Here was where his hardened bulk, bought in prison, had softened behind his desk as his stomach lost its impeccable sculpt; here were the finger calluses which could be blamed on either his current occupation (Unreliable crewman), or on scuffles, or tossball contests.

Every inch of his body told a story. Thinking on that story—penning in a character that shared her own peculiarities—Archie felt a new pounding between her legs which swelled in her belly and breasts. Max was wonderful, she wanted him badly, and it would be very easy to just relent; to forgo her carefulness because she’d done that so often.

However, below her, Max’s head was tilting, and he shifted from vainglorious to ruminating. “You know, you _are_ in the perfect position. Should you wish to control how deeply you’re penetrated.”

Archie pondered skeptically on passed experiences; on the men who’d pleaded that she go _“deeper; harder—c’mon, Arch”_ as her hips gyrated in generous, excruciating circles, her deceptively wet, painful insides waiting for her bed-buddy to be satisfied. 

“Am I?” Archie asked softly. The men in her mind, all handsy and hungry and hurried, reminded her of someone. “You’re not the most restrained of fellas, Max. That’s not a criticism, mind.”

“If the alternative is hurting you, I can control myself. I respect the trepidation, Archimedes, but never would I harm you willingly.” 

When their fingers caught together, and Max squeezed, a new layer of feeling enwreathed the woman’s heart.

Newly confident, Archie rose to her knees again. Gripping his member, aligning it with her pussy, she lowered herself an inch, bringing his cockhead to nestle inside.

She could take him deeper. In the past she had, and, often in her lust-haze, their love-making did not distress straight-off.

She thought of their shared shower on the Groundbreaker; of Max hefting her up and hammering away, that _thing_ inside eventually clawing for solace. 

She thought of straddling him while drunk on what was believed to be N-Rapture. She thought of riding him backwards, and that butting up against something dark, black, and abyssal in her, his cock causing her cramps after he’d left.

Archie could take him deeper, and she could have a painful repeat, but he was urging her discretion; expecting her prudence. Lip pinched between her teeth, Archie began bobbing slightly, never taking more than his head into her channel. Fumbling at her clit, she felt relief flood her body, and, unurged to compromise her comfort, that flood was soon tumultuous. Archie moaned loudly, surprised by her own randy sounds and how really, truly good it felt. 

“Max… Oh, Law.”

“Archimedes…”

Trading glances with the man was difficult, for his stare came from behind low lids heavy with the high of pleasure. Groaning, his head fell to the side in a state of bliss, while his body kept—true to his word—surprisingly still.

“Is this alright?” Archie asked around a hiccuping squeal.

Max nodded. “Swivel your hips? Carefully, of course. I need just a little...”

Left to right, turning her wiggle into a writhe as she started circling her hips, Archie shook. Max’s cock massaged her walls; soothed her ache while spoiling her sensitive, sodden hole, and then Archie began to bounce subtly; she took him again and again as the vicar’s cockhead slipped in and out easily, sloppily; soundfully, and the room began to echo with the wet sounds of their screwing.

“ _Fuck_ , Max.”

Archie buried a hand in her hair; the other stirred her swollen bud in slow, dizzying circles. Inspired by a new soreness in her knees, Archie hunched forward, one hand settling passed Max’s shoulder to keep herself up, the other continuing at her clit as she rut back and forth to the heavy, throat-caught sounds of the vicar keening beneath her. His groans kept time like a drum.

Spine arched, ass stuck out, hips rocking chaotically, Archie hissed as Max’s cock suddenly popped out. Empty, cheated, she winced at what was almost beautiful culmination.

“Damn it.”

“I was… _ngh._ ” Max looked lust-drunk. “I was almost…”

“Yeah.” Archie nodded vigorously. “Me, too.” She was stiff everywhere; so taut and tense, waiting to unwind. “Can we, uh…? _Wait._ ”

Lining his member up once more, she leaned back until he was cradled within, quieting, ever slightly, the need in her.

“Is that too much?”

Archie shook her head. “This works for me, actually. If I lay out on you, and then you can just, uh… do your thing. But careful, like.”

With her face buried in his neck and the rest of her curled against him—breast to breast, and heartbeat against heartbeat—Max crooked his knees and began rolling his hips. He half hilted—far from deep enough to hurt—with every thrust, and his pace was slow, languid; like he meant to make this last longer than even Archie could stand. This sleepy, lethargic rhythm soon had the haze of lust passing, and the build of her orgasm hastening like quicksilver burning in her belly.

“Fuck, Max. Right there.”

His arms looped around her, and she was in the hold of tenderness and desperation. Max seemed near cumming, too—he was pumping fast and focused—and Archie began to shake. Her legs became that swimming confusion as it started; it was between her thighs—that urge to shatter beyond the bounds of her body. Crying out, Archie tensed against Max as her overwhelming orgasm broke, her scream swallowed by smaller, gasping sighs as her cunt pulsed and rippled like waves lapping the beach.

Having reached his end, as well, Max was panting. The grip of his hands were weak; his chest was bobbing beneath her. They stayed such for sometime, shifting only when Archie moved to his side, and then he wrapped around her from behind.

As physically tangible as pen, paper, or datapad, a check-list started in Archie's mind.

_A blanket. A blanket would be rootin’, tootin’ ace right now. Or a Spacer’s Corona. Remember when I could hardly stomach ‘em? Also, something to munch on; something good and greasy. Laws, what I’d give for a bag of Cysty-Bits, or..._

“In the past,” Max asked without preamble, taking her by surprise, “did I... ? Were you ever hurt by me? You mentioned discomfort several times, but never illustrated the seriousness of it.”

“After was when it’d get to smarting,” Archie explained, caressing the arm around her. “Stomach cramps, mostly, but a few whisky-chased pills, or a spritz of something else, usually distracted enough if it didn’t out-right deal with it.”

“You never said.” The vicar’s voice was so soft. “You didn’t…”

Archie turned over, facing him. “It didn’t matter; it didn’t… **seem** like it’d matter. We were boot-knockin’ buddies: in it for a good time. Figured if I’d mentioned it, things would change, and this issue—this block in the road—ain’t nothing new. I’m used to it.” Archie sighed. “It just didn’t seem like a conversation worth having.”

Max accepted her rational, for the reasoning was sound. Still, his eyes were sad. He’d been unwittingly party to a sin without knowing.

Cupping his face, Archie’s fingertips tickled his earlobe. “You’re absolved, preacher. Nothing about this is your fault.”

Touched too much by his contrition, Archie let the mattress and looked for clothes. The vicar mirrored her gear-focused measures, bringing them to armored-up and ready to scoot boots within some minutes. A last pointless sweep for loot preceded their passing out the domicile, rifles in hand, eyes a-scanning.

“I think,” Captain Quaice said as they walked in the near-afternoon air, “that, once we check in with the Iconoclasts' quartermaster, maybe we’ll find our way towards Fallbrook.”

_“Really?”_

Archie laughed at Max’s supreme stupefaction. “It’s starting to feel like I’m standing in your way. Not my intention, of course, but I’ve got the others. And I’ve got Miss Ramnarim-Wentworth should it seem like I’m short-staffed.” Archie met his gaze. “I’d hate for you to miss your man, vicar. This is what you’ve been waiting for. The sooner you visit this scholar, Chaney, the sooner you’re back on your high-n-mighty path to enlightenment. Back to preaching to the masses instead of just to me.“

The man’s sigh was a shaky one, but he nodded. “I appreciate it, captain. Truly.”

An hour later, they were entering Fallbrook’s gates.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you to the commenters on these chapters, especially (*especially*) the ‘repeat offenders’. You not only make this enjoyable, but worth continuing. Without you, I’d have stopped after 'Meeting of Minds', so *chef kiss* Also, a huge thanks to KanuKoris for your feedback because it really gave this chapter the kick in the pants it needed<3


End file.
